The Chosen

His voice loomed like the building: expansive, vast. “Welcome to Wroxton Hall,” he greeted. His broad, short hands opened at his sides, as a minister’s might, during the sermon. ‘Or I should say, welcome, my friends…to The Inn.”

— | — | —

^{CHAPTER SEVEN}

Vera’s awe redoubled once she stepped past the inlaid foyer. Tall vases sprung with flowers stood at either side; Feldspar closed the front doors behind them. Dan B., Donna, and Lee all squinted off in different directions while Vera glanced upward at the great crystal chandelier. Its icelike shimmer seemed to hover.

‘‘The atrium,’’ Feldspar remarked, rather dully. “Satisfactory work, but I’ve seen better.”

I haven’t, Vera thought. If anything, The Inn’s interior was more magnificent than its exterior. Paneled walls rose thirty feet, adorned by great framed oil paintings of Victorian theme. A sharp scent of newness hovered, like the chandelier’s shimmer: newly cut wood, fresh shellac and stain, new carpet. Between the twin, curving staircases sat a beautifully veneered oak reception table; all of the atrium’s tables, in fact, were obviously of the exceptional quality, and centered before fine, plushly upholstered armchairs. The atrium had a classy, quiet feel to it, all soft, dark hues and dark wood, more akin to an English men’s club than a mere hotel entry. Statues in dark marble stood upon pedestals ensconced into the atrium’s paneled walls.

“This way,” Feldspar said.

They followed the odd man off to the right, to the lower west wing. A long wall of wooden lattice filled with myriad small glass panes ended at opened French doors. Above the door, off a black iron rung, suspended the mahogany sign in etched letters:

THE CARRIAGE HOUSE

Vera’s excitement strewed. Feldspar had spared no expense; this made The Emerald Room look like a rib shack. Fine, white linens over oak tables, quality wing chairs, plush, dark carpet. A long planter formed an aisle between the dining room and the kitchen entrance, full of a vast medley of fresh flowers. Tastefully framed rustic artwork, all original oils, embellished elegant, gray-paneled walls. Vera slowly wandered among the dining tables, and in rising awe she recognized the best of everything down to the most minute details. Le Perle silverware, Tiffany & Company saucers and cups, Homer Laughlin plates, Luminarc glasses, shakers, and table vases.

“You, of course, have final say on the serviceware inventory,” Feldspar told her, “should this prove insufficient.”

Insufficient? Vera could’ve fainted. She remembered her own inventory procurement when she’d taken over at The Emerald Room—a fortune, but nothing compared to this. If anything, Feldspar had spent more than he’d needed to.

“You gentlemen will want to inspect the kitchen facilities,” he went on, addressing Dan B. and Lee, and to Donna, “and the service bar and waitress stations.” Feldspar faintly smiled. “And I’m happy to say that, as of now, my affiliation with all technical aspects of the restaurant are at an end. In other words, should you find anything unsatisfactory about the facilities, voice your grievances not to me but to Ms. Abbot.”

“Oh, we’re quite used to that,” Donna remarked and laughed.

“Come on, Curley,” Dan B. said to Lee. “Let’s check out our gig.”

“Sure, Shemp,” Lee replied as the three of them made for the swingdoors to the kitchen.

Vera still felt prickly in her excitement. Panning her gaze, she could scarcely believe that this beautiful restaurant was, for all intents and purposes, hers.

“Conclusions? Comments?” Feldspar bid.